Frostbite

My breath hangs in the air and warms up my face. The frigid temperatures of the Columbia Icefield have dropped to a record -30° Fahrenheit. The tent is starting to turn a little cold, so I whip open my flask. Nothing a little brandy can't fix.

I'm going to climb to the summit of Mount Athabasca, this giant piece of ice and rock beneath my feet. The view is supposed to be amazing, ice as far as the eye can see, vast and limitless.

My atomic clock reads 8:29pm, and I've got to get up before sunrise if I want to reach the summit and get the perfect lighting for my snapshot. As soon as I start to drift off to sleep, the wind picks up and smacks against my flimsy tent, causing incredible noise and whistling howls from the wind. It's snowing again, not a good idea for a climber in January.

The biting cold seeps into the nylon tent, insulated with only a few blankets. I can't stay here long, or I'll turn into an icicle, so I shove my supplies, my maps and gear, and my journal into my rucksack. I snap my goggles over my head and pull up my hood. I've been in this weather before, it's never a good idea to come underdressed. The sturdy black boots will likely save my life, so I make sure to put them on. Taking one last look around the tent, I finally wrap my face with my scarf, muffling myself in fleece.

I step outside into the howling wind and snow and immediately regret it. It's a blizzard! It came out of nowhere and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I collapse my tent and wrap it up, careful so I don't lose it to the wind. The night is pitch black, illuminated only by the snow flying around like stingers. The safest place for me now is a cave, and I need one fast. Remembering the map, I face west and fight the wind as I trudge through the snow. Piles of it find its way into my boots, and since I didn't have time to tightly shove my snow pants into them, they burn on my ankles, ice hot and painful. The snow bites into my face, threatening to rip my hat and goggles off. There's nothing I can see, nothing but black and white.

I scream out in frustration, but it's lost in the blizzard, just like I am. I take one step further, willing myself to go forward.

Crack-!

A deafening crack rips the ground apart beneath my feet and I fall.

I'm falling

falling

fall-
ing

f
a
l
l
i
n
g

I register no pain, I've gone numb. My breathing is ragged, my blood is frozen. It's nice here, it's silent. The screaming of the storm is far away, unable to wreak havoc. My toes are tingling, so is my face and my ears. That's odd. Did my scarf fall off?

My arms are logs and my legs are heavy and unmoving. I open my eyes again, and look up. How spectacular. I'm in a cave of ice. Blue and white and grey and black and phenomenal crystalline structures shooting out of everywhere.

I will my hands to make a fist but nothing happens. The numbness is gone, replaced with blissful nothing. My muscles have frozen and in it's place is ice. My bones are ice, my flesh is ice, and I can feel my insides turning into ice as well. Delirious, I make a silent joke, "What kind of alcohol should I drink to fix frostbite of this severity?"

Cold overtakes my body, and before it reaches my brain, I think to myself and only to myself, what a beautiful place to die.